


Better Late than Never

by ImmortalKoschei



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Author is a Gay Idiot, Brotherly Love, Coming Out, Family Fluff, Gen, Homophobic Language, Past Domestic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:13:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25196752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImmortalKoschei/pseuds/ImmortalKoschei
Summary: Stan has a secret and doesn't know how to tell Ford. Ford has a secret and doesn't want to tell Stan. Communication is Key, but bad timing stops them from talking properly.
Relationships: Ford Pines & Stan Pines
Comments: 17
Kudos: 68





	Better Late than Never

**Author's Note:**

> For Kenna. I love Gravity Falls now. Thanks for that.
> 
> Ariel Hirsch, if you find this: Please don't show your brother (unless you think he'll enjoy it).
> 
> Alex Hirsch, if you find this: I project onto characters I like and enjoy seeing representation when media only gives us the bares bones minimum. I love the Stan twins. They mean a lot to me. Please take this as a compliment.

It's almost been a year to the day that Dipper and Mabel had come to Gravity Falls, Oregon -and only two weeks until they were scheduled to come out again- when Stan makes his way to Ford's laboratory in the basement. He's more than aware that he's going to find his twin hunched over a book, journal, encyclopedia, or some sort of lexicon, (Oh God, he was starting to pick up Sixer's vocabulary; because seriously? Lexicon?) but regardless of how entrapped Ford was with his research, this is important, and he needs to say this before he loses his courage to do so. He needs to tell his brother the truth; Stanley Pines is not a straight man. Sure, he likes women. They're nice. Beautiful even. That being said, he also likes men. He also also likes people who are neither, or both, or some variation thereupon, because when someone's good looking they're good looking and-

'Hold on there, Stan,' a voice inside his brain warns, 'You're losing your focus!'

Okay, so maybe he isn't ready for this conversation. Sure he's thought over what he would say exactly for over 40 years, but what was another two weeks? He could wait for the kids to be back and sit them all down and tell them. Mabel would be ecstatic to know that her favourite matchmaking contestant's (read: victim's) potential dating pool went up by, what, 400% maybe? Stan was never good with numbers that didn't involve money. Plus, with the kids around, Ford would have less of a reason to make a scene about this. Even better, he could take them all out to breakfast; Ford would be trapped by social conventions, and would be forced to react subtly. Then again, Mabel wouldn't, she'd scream it out loud that her Grunkle Stan was… what were the kids calling it? 'Here and Queer'? Yeah, scratch breakfast. That was a horrible idea. Gravity Falls as a whole may have been a rather accepting community, but that doesn't mean it's anyone else's business who he takes to bed.

He theoretically could say that was the case for Ford and the kids as well, but Ford… Ford deserved to know, they shared everything with one another as kids, and they would never have that kind of relationship again if Stan went around keeping secrets from his brother: the kids could use him as an example, that there's nothing wrong with being who you are; and that there's never a bad time to embrace it either. Lord knows he could have used someone like that when he was the kids' age, but that was neither here nor there. He was sure he was going to tell his family that he wasn't heterosexual, the problem he was facing, was when?

'This is ridiculous' thought Stan, hand hovering still over the vending machine's keypad, 'You've been through scarier stuff than this! You punched a pterodactyl in the eye last summer,' one part of his brain supplied. 

'Ah, but you don't live with that pterodactyl.' The devil's advocate replied, 'You don't have to wake up and be reminded every day by said pterodactyl that you punched them, and that that's somehow wrong, twisted, disgusting, unnatural-'

That train of thought came to a screeching halt before Stan could work himself into a fury. Sure, that's how Pops talked, and Ma wasn't much better when it came to being accepting, but Ford wasn't like that… right? Surely Ford had seen enough oddities in his lifetime away from home to know that this wasn't the worst thing someone could be, if it was a bad thing to be at all?

Steeling himself, Stanley Pines entered in the code to the keypad that opened the basement entrance. With a soft *hiss* the vending machine detached itself from the wall, and swung open. With his shoulders back and chest out to exude confidence that for once Stan felt like he was missing, he went down the stairs to talk to his twin brother.

As if he had read Stan's mind and decided to play along with the scenario his twin had concocted, Stanford Pines was indeed sitting at a desk, bent over one of his journals. At a glance at the sloppy handwriting that couldn't have belonged to a meticulous Ford, Stan could see that it was Journal #3, the one Dipper had found in the woods and had added his own notes to before Ford had reclaimed it as his own. Stan smiled to himself at the memory of the young boy. He would be glad to see both him and Mabel again so soon. Thoughts aside, Ford seemed lost in his own. He was absolutely pouring over the notes Dipper had made and was scratching his own findings in the margins and cross referencing what he was reading with what he had been documenting in Journal #4, the newest addition to the collection, which had been started when the brothers had begun their voyage at the beginning of the prior fall.

“I’m telling you, Stan, this kid is a natural!” Ford exclaimed suddenly, startling his brother, “I mean sure, these notes are a little rudimentary and his handwriting could use some work, but he’s got quite the head on his shoulders, and an eye for detail. Can you believe he befriended the MultiBear? And they bonded over BABBA of all things!” Ford said with a hearty chuckle. 

Stan stayed silent, and when no response came from the younger twin, Ford turned around, resting his arm on the back of the chair he was sitting in. Ford’s smile fell from his face when he saw the look on Stan’s face -one of quiet shock- but quickly regained his emotional footing, and smirked.

“Worried I’m starting to gain some psychic abilities?” Ford asked with another chuckle, “I heard you coming down the stairs, the seventh step squeaks. Can I help you with something, Stan?”

‘Yeah’ Thought Stan, ‘You can stop acting so casual when I’m about to tell you the one secret in Gravity Falls you haven’t heard yet.’  
“I just closed up shop for today and was gonna make dinner. Knowing you, you haven’t had anything but a cup of joe,” Stan said, and watched as his brother pushed an empty coffee mug away from Stan’s line of sight. Internally, Stan slapped himself, this was not going to plan! He was supposed to just come down here and spit it out, damned be the consequences! “So, uh, c’mon up. You need a break, Ford.” 

Although he wanted to argue that he was an adult and could take care of himself, thank you very much, Ford felt his stomach growl from hunger at the mention of food and conceded without audible protest. He stood, his easy smirk never slipping an inch as he walked up the stairs behind Stan. 

“So, what’s for dinner?” Ford asked once they had made it to the kitchen, and Stan paused momentarily. He honestly hadn’t thought of what to make for dinner; his first thought was to make pancakes for dinner, as he was uncertain if they had the ingredients for anything else palatable. That and his mind was still stuck on the idea of taking Ford to breakfast before telling him he was pansexual. Maybe he could still take Ford out tomorrow and tell him then? After all, tomorrow was Sunday, the Shack wouldn’t be open and they’d have all the time they would want to talk. But no, no, Stan knew better. As nice as the thought of taking his brother somewhere public was to ensure a fight would not be instigated, Stan would lose his nerve surrounded by so many other people. What if someone overheard? What if Ford made a scene anyway, resulting in not only everyone knowing, but also pitying looks from the other denizens of Gravity Falls? That was something that Stan was not going to risk. He didn’t need the pity of others, what he needed to do was work up the nerve to tell his brother the news. 

“I dunno, whatever looks good I suppose.” Stan said after what felt like too long of a pause.

Ford laughed, and clapped a hand on his brother’s shoulder as he strode past Stan. Stan had to stop himself from flinching as he felt the heat of six digits burn into his shoulder.

“Well, whatever it is, let’s get it started; I’m starving!”

Without another word, Stan walked to the pantry and grabbed the pancake mix from where he left it high in the shelf -placed so out of habit to avoid Mabel getting her hands on it again- listening as Ford gushed about the research Dipper had managed to get done during his short summer stay. Stan replied with noncommittal grunts and hums of acknowledgment as he mixed in more ingredients, when suddenly a small wave of courage passed through him. He could do this, he could tell his brother the truth.

“Ford…?” Stan muttered, “I’m... uh… pan.”

“Hmm? What was that about a pan?” Ford asked.

“I said ‘Could you pass me a pan?’.”

“Oh! Sure thing.”

Ford handed Stan the large skillet that had been placed haphazardly in the drying rack. Stan took it and placed it over the heat, periodically holding his hand over the pan to test the temperature. Eventually when he deemed it warm enough, he began to pour batter into the frying pan. Stan cooked in silence, listening to Ford prattle on about his research, about how excited he was to see the kids, more of his research… but Stan wasn't paying much attention. All he could think of was how he was going to tell Ford.

Then they were sitting down, and adding butter and maple syrup to the piles of pancakes that were on their plates. It grew quiet as the brothers began to eat, but Ford would still continue to speak about anything that came to mind. The thing is, Ford wasn't stupid -quite the opposite, actually- and it was only a matter of time before he not only noticed that Stan wasn't contributing to the conversation, but any attempts to bait him into doing so were absolutely futile. Suddenly, Ford stopped talking about everyday woes, realizing that he had to be more direct in his attempts to get his brother talking.

"Stan…?"

"Hmm?"

"What's wrong?"

Stan stayed silent and pushed his food around his plate before heaving a deep sigh. He dropped his fork onto his plate and began to wring his hands nervously.

"Listen Ford… while you were gone…?"

"Stanley… what did you do?"

"Why is it you always think I've done something?" Stan spat back, suddenly indignant, and Ford brought his hands up in a sign of surrender.

"Calm down, Stanley. Just… tell me what's going on."

Stan took a deep breath, bringing himself back down from his growing rage. This was his chance. The perfect opportunity to tell Ford. Ford walked right into it, and couldn't be mad (at least, not as mad as he would be if Stan just sprung it on him) about it.

"I'm… just thinking about a new exhibit for the shack." Stan lied blatantly. 

‘No. Jesus, no! What are you doing? This was your chance and you blew it!’

Stan looked at Ford almost pleadingly, although if he was hoping for his brother to let his obvious lie slide or to press him about said lie, Stan wasn’t sure. That is, until Ford spoke.

“A new exhibit? Is that all? You had me worried for a moment there, Stan. You thinking of adding an actual oddity to this old place?”

‘Why? Why couldn’t you just call me out on my lie? Why are you playing along? I know you know me better than this, Ford. You know I’m up to something. Maybe I should just come clean?’

“Yeah, uh… nothing dangerous like Dipper tried to bring here, Hell, nothing alive preferably. Just like… one of Mothman’s feathers, or a cast of BIgfoot’s tracks. I-I tried finding something while you were gone, but didn’t have any luck.”

‘So much for coming clean, coward.’

Ford nodded, as if this was a perfectly acceptable turn of events and not one of the dumbest fabrications that Stan had ever come up with in his life. There was no way Ford actually thought that in all the years Stan was hunting for all three of the original journals, that he had never found a single artifact of the supernatural that he could have put on display, was there? 

“Then it’s decided!” Ford said, standing with his now empty plate and moving to the sink to wash his dish and utensils. Stan turned in his seat to watch Ford, bewilderment written plainly on his face.

“‘Decided’? What’s ‘decided’, Sixer?”

“Tomorrow you and I are going hunting for your new exhibit! We gotta get something that really catches the world’s attention. Something so extraordinary that even Mabel and Dipper will be puzzled by it despite last summer’s adventure!”

“Whoa, whoa, wait a minute, Poindexter,” Stan said, standing from his place at the table, “Why don’t we just use something we found while out on the Stan O’ War II? Like that- that Ahuizotl tail we found near the ruins of Tenochtitlan in Mexico City? Or the Hizo no Mushi that I contracted in Kyushu? We can put it in a jar of formaldehyde.”

“I understand what you’re saying,” Ford admitted, as he finished washing his dishes and placed them into the drying rack, “however, those are rare specimens for us. Who knows when we’ll find more things like that in our travels? No, it’ll be best to take something local, something that can be easily obtained again in case I need to study it. After all, I can’t very well study an artifact that’s on display six days a week.”

Stan hated that his twin had a point. Especially since this was not the discussion he wanted to be having at this particular moment in time. That being said, he couldn’t very well back peddle now. He had dug his own grave, so to speak. He needed to accept the situation he had gotten himself into. Stan threw away the rest of his food, having lost his rather lackluster appetite, and put his dishes into the sink without bothering to clean them.

“Alright, Ford,” Stan said with a sigh of defeat as he crossed his arms over his chest, “What exactly did you have in mind for the new exhibit? Because depending on what you say, you’re getting it alone.”

Ford laughed and dismissed Stan’s remark with a wave of a six fingered hand.

“Don’t worry, Stanley. What I have in mind is perfectly safe. No threat of loss of life or limb in sight.”

“That’s not an answer, Brainiac.”

Stan knows that Ford heard him, but despite that, his twin does not answer him. And sure, that’s frankly a little annoying; at the end of the day though, Stan trusts his brother, and if Ford says it’s safe then he’s inclined to believe that. Even if he wanted to argue with his brother over something so trivial as the name of the creature they were going to be getting a souvenir from, Ford has already left the kitchen, leaving Stan alone with his thoughts. They aren't terrible pleasant thoughts either. Most of them are him mentally kicking himself for getting himself into this situation when all he wanted was to tell his brother his biggest secret; a secret which could single handedly destroy the relationship that they worked so hard to reforge through times of emotional turbulence.

'Okay, maybe waiting another day to tell him won't be so bad?'

With that thought, Stan makes his way to his room, and changes into his usual lounge wear before crawling into bed and going to sleep.

\-----  
Stan wakes to a loud banging coming from downstairs. Paranoid as he is, he grabs his gold knuckles (they're easily hidden, and as an old man who appears unarmed, he makes robbers lazy and foolhardy).

Of course, when he gets downstairs, there is no robber. No, instead it's Ford, already dressed and in the kitchen at… what time is it? 9? Stan groans and sets his gold knuckles down on the kitchen table, next to what appears to be a basket which has been covered by a dish towel. Ford turns from his position at the counter and smiles brightly at his brother.

"Morning, Stan! I'm almost done here. Go get dressed and we can head out."

Stan looks at Ford, blinking slowly. He's only now registering that Ford is preparing some sort of meat. Chicken by the looks of it.

'Oh good.' Stan thinks, 'We're dealing with a meat eater.'

"Look, Ford, about this whole exhibit thing, I'm not… what I mean to say is that-"

"As I said before, Stan, this is all perfectly safe. We aren't going to be in any danger."

"Ford, you're preparing raw meat. That means we're going after a carnivore."

Ford hums in acknowledgement, continuing to rub spices into the raw meat. The spices smell foreign, and Stan wonders -not for the first time- where his brother gets a hold of the things he uses for his research. Without another word, Stan turns to go back upstairs and get into some real clothes. The right moment to tell his brother will come. He just isn't sure when that'll be.

\-----

Ford is adjusting the towel over the contents of the basket when he returns, and Stan's curiosity beats his desire to know as little about his brother's monster hunting methods as possible.

"What's in the basket?"

"Oh, the seasoned chicken, myrrh, an obelisk of obsidian, and Journals #3 and #4."

"Seems like an odd assortment."

"I suppose so. C'mon. Let's head out. Grab your keys."

"My keys? Ford, I'm not taking my car through the woods."

"We aren't going to the woods, we're going into town."

Stan at this point, doesn't argue. He grabs his keys, and walks outside (locking the door behind him and Ford) to the red Stan Mobile, figuring that Ford needs something from the store before they go monster hunting for real. Which is fine, he supposes. Maybe his time will come while in town. He can just turn to Ford and spit it out nonchalantly; like he hasn't been stressing about how to tell Ford for the past 12 hours.

As it turns out, they aren't headed to the store. Ford gives him directions instead to a small, quaint house similar to the one Soos and his Abuelita lived in, but not in the same neighborhood. Stan has passed it before, but never thought anything of the faded grey exterior. Now, however, seeing it fills him with unease, and he isn't sure why. The way Ford walks up to the front door with confidence is the only thing that's keeping Stan from bolting in the opposite direction. As they walk up the pathway to the front door, Stan notices that Ford has the basket with him. Not a good sign. Stan also notices that he's failed to bring any sort of weapon; he'd left his gold knuckles on the table in the kitchen. That being said, he isn't afraid to leave this place with scraped knuckles, as long as he and Ford leave with their lives.

Ford seems to sense his nerves and gives him what Stan thinks is supposed to be a reassuring smile. It seems like the genuine thing, and Stan remembers Ford's promise that this would be a safe adventure. Never in his life has he hoped for his brother to not be lying as much as this very moment. Before Stan can say as much to his brother, Ford has rung the doorbell and Stan almost feels like crying in relief when he hears a very human voice shout from beyond the sturdy wooden door.

"On my way!" The owner of the voice yells. There's a muffled sound of someone moving around, followed promptly by something getting knocked over, followed by quiet cursing. Ah, a person after Stan's own heart.

Stan isn't sure who he's expecting to open the door, but the young man that does so catches him off guard. He's young, probably in his early thirties, with dark brown skin and short black hair so curly that Stan isn't sure if they count as dreads or not. He's wearing a pair of open rim glasses, a t-shirt with what appears to be Egyptian hieroglyphs, and a pair of light wash jeans that have horizontal cuts at the knee. If Stan was 40 years younger (Hell, even 30 years) he would have already asked him out on a date. 

The young man takes both twins in for less than a second before he wraps his arms around Ford in what seems to be a crushing hug if the pops that come from Ford are anything to go by.

"Ford! I haven't seen you in years! Come in, please! Come in."

The sentence doesn't sit well with Stan, but he can't quite put his finger on why before both he and Ford are being ushered inside.

The inside of the house is structurally similar to Soos's and Abuelita's house as well, but instead of the musky scent of old people that permeates their home, the stranger's home smells like expensive colognes and incense. It's not quite overwhelming, but it's close. The home is almost a Mystery Shack of it's own with all the odds and ends that are scattered through the living room. Of course none of it is of the same variety of that which is found at The Shack. No, most of what's here has an ancient feel to it. Natural history artifacts are sitting on shelves, tables, even the entertainment center has a few bobbles placed on it. Immediately, Stan wonders if this man used to be a curator at a museum, not the small one here in Gravity Falls (half of what he has isn't even from this continent let alone the local area), but one like the ones he had seen in Washington D.C. and New York City.

"It's great to see you too," Ford says with another of his genuine smiles, "Mark, I believe you've met my twin brother?" He asks with a gesture to him.

Stan, who was so preoccupied with looking around the home, jumps slightly before putting his hand out to shake Mark's hand.

"Stanley Pines. Nice to meet you, Mark."

"We've met before, back when the Mystery Shack opened. Of course it was called the Murder Hut then, wasn't it?" Mark says while shaking Stan's hand, and Stan gives him a perplexed look.

"I'm surprised you remember that. You look about as old as The Shack. You must have been, what? Two? Three? When I first opened the place up."

Both Mark and Ford laugh at this like Stan has said a joke.

"Not quite," Mark replies, "I was 3,992 at the time."

Stan falls quiet, waiting for an explanation. The good thing is he doesn't have to wait long before Ford begins to speak.

"You see, Mark here is a Reptilian. He was born in 2010 B.C., underneath the Nile river, thirty years before the start of the middle kingdom in Egypt. For thousands of years he was worshipped as the God, Sobek," Ford said.

"It was quite the life, I must admit, but as I grew older and more mature, Egypt was beginning to fade, I retreated back underground and eventually found my way here, to Gravity Falls. Ford thinks I was attracted to the 'weirdness' of the town, I think it was coincidence,

"So, what's in the basket, Ford?"

"Stanley and I need to ask you for a favor, I thought I might as well bring an offering," Ford explained as he handed the basket to Mark.

Mark took it gratefully, and uncovered what was inside. He laughed good heartedly at the contents.

"And what an offering it is. Very traditional, I appreciate that. But pray tell, what are two of your journals doing in here?"

"Oh, I figured you'd want to look at them while I cook the chicken."

It was Mark's turn to laugh. He took the contents of the basket, sans chicken and handed it back to Ford. Stan felt rather left out of the conversation, and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"Well, you know where the kitchen is. Go ahead and prepare it. We can eat while you tell me about this favour you both have for me."

Ford took the basket and went through a door that Stan presumed led to the kitchen to begin cooking. Mark meanwhile went to pick up a pile of books that he had knocked off of the table in his rush to answer the door. Stan bent to pick up a stray hardcover that had managed to get further than the others, and handed it to Mark.

"So… do you prefer Mark, or Sobek?"

Mark chuckled and shook his head, taking the book from Stan with a quiet 'thank you'.

"Both are as much my name as the other, call me what you prefer. You can sit down if you'd like."

"It seems weird to talk to a God. I think I'll stick with Mark," Stan said as he took a seat on the small loveseat in the room. He wondered how his brother had come across a creature such as Mark and chosen to not keep him captive for study. Despite not asking this aloud, Mark answered.

"Ford found me in the lake in my true form, I was enjoying some fish when he captured me. I can't say I blame him for doing so, I was unintentionally terrorizing the town, after all. Regardless, we came to a mutual understanding; he would let me go to live my life as I pleased, and I would stay out of trouble. Every now and then he would come check up on me. Both to see how I was doing and to study me. It was mutually beneficial. I got company, and Ford got research. If you ask me though, I think he enjoyed the company just as much, even when he didn't want to admit it. We were both lonely, in a new town, with no one to call a friend or family."

"You can read minds," Stan groaned in exasperation. Bringing a hand up to wipe his face. That meant that Mark knew Stan found him attractive, Mark knew that Stan was… was…

"Are you going to tell him?" Mark asked simply and Stan jumped slightly in his seat (startled twice in one room, go figure) before turning beet red in embarrassment.

"I never thought about that while I was here. How did you-?"

Mark tapped his temple. "Ah, not consciously, no. But the worry, the thought, has been running through the back of your mind too. Surface level thoughts are easier to grasp, but that worry is very loud, Stan."

"I don't know how or when to say it." Stan admitted finally, and Mark shrugged.

"I suggest being blunt. Ford is brilliant with books, but people? Not so much. I suspect the opposition could be said for you. As for when, I can't help with that. You're gonna have to wait for the right time."

"I'm worried about what he'll think of me. Is there any way you can tell me that before I say something and ruin one of the few good things I have?"

"I'm afraid I can only read thoughts as they pass with ease. Thoughts, memories, opinions, that aren't being thought of presently are more difficult. If he consented to it, and gave me plenty of time to do so, I could figure that out. However, even then, I don't share people's thoughts with others."

"So I'm on my own?"

"Not entirely, if he does take it poorly, you can count on me to knock some sense into him."

"Thanks, I appreciate that. Is it alright if we change the subject?"

"Sure thing."

They continued to talk about anything that came to mind, the weather, Mark's life and abilities, Weirdmageddeon, Dipper and Mabel, all while Mark looked over the journals Ford had brought for him to skim.

Even Mark was surprised by Dipper's ability to catalog the oddities he had come across during his single summer in Gravity Falls, and laughed at stories of Mabel and Waddles.

"They seem like great kids," Mark stated, putting the journals off to the side, "If they'd like, I don't mind showing my true form to people I trust. I can show it to them."

"You know, I was curious about that," Stan said, "What do you actually look like?"

Mark grinned and stood from his seat in the armchair that was next to the love seat. Before Stan's eyes, Mark began to morph. His bones groaned and cracked as they reformed, his skin stretched and turned from dark brown to a sickly pale green, his limbs extended and his fingers grew massive claws. And extraordinarily, his spine extended to form a long, ridged tail. What shocked Stan the most, was Mark's new face. Instead of it being somewhat reptilian but still humanoid in shape, his mouth formed into a long snout, turning into that of a crocodile's.

"You'll have to excussse me." Mark said as he looked down at his pale skin with golden, slited eyes, "I'm in the processss of sshedding. Otherwisssse I'd be rather vibrant."

Careful of the placement of his tail, Mark sat back down, and crossed his legs.

"Ssso? What do you think?"

Stan was bewildered, and pointed to Mark.

"You hiss your 's's. I wasn't expecting that since you don't see very snake like," he stated somewhat lamely. Mark laughed, but it sounded like a deep growl.

"Yess. I'm of a variant that'sss clossser to crocodiless. There are thosse that are clossser to ssnakesss. Othersss are closser to iguanasss. One particularly aggresssive variant isss ssimilar to the Komodo Dragon. However, all of usss hisss our 's'ss."

It was during the moments after in which Stan was attempting to (metaphorically) pick his jaw up from the floor, that Ford walked back into the living room from the kitchen.

"The chicken is finished," he started before getting a good look at Mark and smiling, "Ah, Mark. I see my calculations were correct. You are in the process of shedding."

Mark gave Ford what Stan would call 'an unsettlingly toothy' smile. And if Stan didn't know better he would say that both he and Ford were in serious danger of being consumed. This thought was quickly replaced by a bashful apology aimed at Mark who looked to Stan and nodded.

"No offenssse taken, Sstan. It can be an unssettling sssight to thosse that firssst ssee it."

"I see you learned about Mark's ability to read thoughts." Ford said, in a tone that made Stan speculate Ford had left that information out on purpose, "Let's eat, yeah? Mark, feel free to leave your skin as is. Our favor has something to do with it."

"Asss I expected," Mark replied, but didn't seem all that put off by it.

The three of them went back into the kitchen with Ford offering to serve the food, Mark and Stan sat at the medium sized round table that was placed in the corner of the room and waited.

Ford obviously knew his way around this kitchen, and Stan marveled at this fact. It had been over 30 years since Ford had been to this home, hadn't it? It made Stan wonder how often Ford had been over to Mark's home. He turned to Mark, posing the question with his thoughts, but Mark only smiled and shrugged.

Stan decided not to push the matter.

Ford came by moments later with the plates of what Stan assumed was food, but had never seen something like it before. It appeared to be a circular flat bread dish.

"I hope you don't mind, Mark, but I borrowed the ingredients to make Hawawshi. I haven't had it for almost 35 years," Ford said sheepishly.

Mark waved a clawed hand to dismiss Ford's almost apology as the elder twin sat down.

"Oh I don't care at all. I'm just glad you ssstill know your way around my kitchen," Mark said.

"It took a few minutes to remember where everything was, but as always you're a creature of habit. Not a single thing has been moved in here."

"What can I ssssay? It workss, and 'if it issn't broke', you know? Ssso tell me, Ford. What exactly do you and Sstan here need from me?"

Ford clapped a hand onto Stan's shoulder and gently shook his brother.

"Stan here wants a new exhibit for the Mystery Shack. Something real and not phony like the rest of the stuff he's got on display. He doesn't want anything that is or used to be living, just a momento of sorts. And since you're shedding, I thought you might be willing to part with your dead skin for us. We don't need all of it, but a piece that has some good texture is ideal."

Mark nodded.

"I don't ssee an isssue with that. I usssually burn it after all. How big of a piece did you want?"

"Probably about the size of a piece of paper. What'd you say Stan?" Ford asked.

"Uhh, yeah. Yeah that works," Stan replied, not exactly thrilled to have a giant piece of dead lizard man skin in his home. "Unless you want a piece to study, Ford?"

Ford shook his head and put up his hand in refusal. "No, no. I've already studied Mark. But if you ever get your hand on any of the other variants' discarded skin, let me know."

After that, they ate in near silence, with mostly Ford and Mark catching up. Stan, meanwhile, ate quietly as he thought (not very loudly, he hoped, in desire to keep Mark from hearing his thoughts, but from the sly glances he was getting from the Lizard Man he could tell his efforts were futile) about how he would tell Ford. Maybe along the drive back home? That way he didn't have to look his brother in the eye as he told him; he didn't have to see the look on his brother's face when he admitted that he didn't care who someone was, as long as they cared about him and his family he'd love them.

All too soon, the meal was over and the sun was reaching the highest point in the sky signaling noon. Ford took their dishes and cleaned them, and Mark left the room to go peel a piece of his skin off, so as to not disturb their settling stomachs.

And Stan sat quietly. Thinking. Debating. Maybe he could say it now?

"Hey, Ford?" Stan prompted.

"Yeah?" Ford said, drying the last plate.

"I-I think the skin was a good idea. The kids'll love it."

And then the kitchen door was opening and Mark was walking back in, back in his human form with a large, thick piece of dead skin in his hand, and the journals in the other. Without a word he put the journals back into the now empty basket, and handed Stan the skin. It was surprisingly tough, like, well, crocodile skin. However, unlike crocodile skin, this was one solid chunk of scale mesh, and not individual scales like a normal crocodile would have shed. Even Stan had to admit this was going to be a fascinating exhibit, despite the fact that hardly anyone would believe in its authenticity.

"Thanks, Mark." Stan said.

"Anytime." Mark answered.

Ford finished drying and putting away the dishes and grabbed the basket and held it towards Stan.

"Go ahead and put the skin in here. We don't want it getting damaged."

Stan did so, and both he and Ford allowed themselves to be walked to the front door and ushered outside with a fond farewell. They both got into the Stan Mobile and Stan pulled away from the curb, beginning the short drive back to the Mystery Shack. Ford had turned on the music and was tapping his six fingers to the beat of the song. He looked calm. Totally ready to have a bombshell dropped on him.

'Okay,' thought Stan, 'no one can interrupt you now. Ford can make a scene and no one will care. The windows are up, no one will hear us. This is it.'

Stan cleared his throat, and turned down the music that was playing from the radio.

"Ford?"

"Yes?"

"There's something I've been trying to tell you, and I don't know how to say this without being blunt, so I'm just gonna come out and say it. I don't want you to think I was keeping something this big from you for so long because I didn't want to share, but I was scared about telling you. I was scared to know how you would respond to me-"

"Stanley?"

Stan looked to his brother, who had a concerned look on his face, and sighed.

"Ford, I'm-"

Suddenly, there was the blaring sound of sirens and red and blue lights flashing in Stan's rearview mirror. Without another word, Stanley pulled over to the side of the road, and unfortunately the police cruiser followed him.

'Great. Just great.'

Stan rolled down his window and was greeted by (Of course) Sheriff Bulbs and Deputy Durland.

"Hello officers. How can I help you this fine day?"

"Afternoon, Stan, Ford," Bulbs said with a nod to each brother, "Are you aware that you're driving an unregistered vehicle, Stan?"

Stan's face fell into a frown as he spoke.

"What? That's ridiculous. I've got a sticker on the plate for next year!"

Bulbs and Durland looked at each other with disbelief, but Durland went and double checked the plate anyways. Durland shrugged.

"Sorry, Stan. No sticker. Maybe a kid nicked it? You got the paperwork?"

"Yeah, yeah. Give me a moment," Stan said and leaned over to the glove box and opened it. A pile of tickets (all paid in full, thank you very much) fell into Ford's lap. Ford looked down at the pile in shock.

"And how do you plan on finding the registration in this mess?" Ford asked.

"It's an organized chaos." Stan hissed.

Even after several minutes of shifting through the pile, Stan couldn't find the registration. He turned back to Bulbs and Durland and laughed nervously.

"So, I can't find it. But can't you both look it up? On those computers cops have in their cars?"

Bulbs and Durland shared another look.

"Sorry, Stan," Durland said, "we checked on our computer and it said your registration was up. That's why we asked if you had the paperwork for it."

"You're gonna have to come with us, Stan," Bulbs admitted.

"Oh come on!" Stan shouted, but got out of the vehicle without fuss anyways. He allowed Bulbs to handcuff him, and let the both of them lead him to the patrol vehicle. Ford meanwhile was shifting through the pile, frantically searching for the registration. 

Stan watched as Bulbs went back to the Stan Mobile and talked to Ford for a moment before walking back to the patrol car and climbing in.

"I gave Ford the go ahead to take the car back home without incident, Stan. He said he'll be on the way to bail you out soon afterwards."

Stan was quiet as Bulbs pulled back into the street.

"Bulbs? Durland?"

"Yeah, Stan?" Durland asked, making eye contact with him in the mirror.

"How'd… how did you guys come out to your families?"

The officers looked at each other again before Bulbs laughed quietly.

"Well, I knew back when I was a kid. Course, you and I know how difficult it was for folks like us back then. Even now it ain't easy. But anyways, I didn't say anything until I met Durland here. He was there for me and gave me the courage to come out to my folks. Turns out, they knew the entire time. Were very accepting too. I'm one of the lucky ones though."

"Yeah," Durland said with a sigh, "I told my folks when I moved out. They knew too, but were hoping I'd keep it under wraps and marry some pretty lady. They were disappointed to say the least. Mom said if I wasn't already moving out, she'd kick me out. Dad didn't even look at me."

"You want me to beat them up for you?" Stan offered earnestly, and Durland laughed softly.

"Thanks, but no. I've got my new family now here in Gravity Falls," Durland said and gently elbowed Bulbs, who laughed warmly, "why'd you ask, Stan?"

"I… what I mean to say is that I'm…" Stan tried to get it out, but it was so much harder to say it out loud. It was easier, saying it to himself and keeping it there, close to his chest.

Bulbs and Durland seemed to understand anyways, they were both nodding and taking in the context clues. It wasn't too difficult to put two and two together, and it wasn't too hard to understand that Stan didn't always bat for the same team.

"And uh… how'd he take it?" Bulbs asked.

"You pulled me over before I could finish. He doesn't know yet." Stan admitted.

"Oh." Durland said, and visibly shrunk in on himself. Bulbs meanwhile rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.

They were all silent until they arrived at the police station, and barely talked while they booked Stan in and set him up in the holding cell. As they were putting him in the cell, Durland said one last thing to him before he and Bulbs went to do paperwork.

"Ford'll be here for you soon. You can always tell him then. And you know something? I don't think he'll mind."

Then Stan was alone with his thoughts, and boy, what thoughts they were. He couldn't believe that he had to leave Ford without telling him the truth. So instead Ford was left there, on the side of the road, with a lack of answers and what was probably a high dose of anxiety. To be fair, Stan may have made a bigger deal out of coming out than was strictly necessary, but he was nothing if not a man with a flair for the dramatic, and as he understood, coming out was a big deal. He didn't think that he would have to leave Ford with a cliffhanger. And now he was in jail. Stan took a seat on the bench, and waited.

As it turned out, he didn't have long to wait. He was there for another fifteen minutes when he heard someone entering the police station, followed promptly by his brother speaking to the Sheriff and Deputy.

"I found it." Ford said, slamming something down onto what Stan assumed was a desk in front of him. There was a silence as that something was inspected, and only a moment later, Durland was in the room across from Stan, unlocking the cell door. Durland had a flustered look on his face, and Stan was certain that Ford had used the certified “Older Sibling Look of Contempt” he used to (and sometimes still did) pull on Stan.

"Ford. What'd you find?" Stan called out, making sure he was loud enough that his voice carried into the other room. Ford did not respond until Stan had entered the front office.

"The registration. No thanks to your organized chaos, mind you, but here it is in black and white." He said taking the paperwork from Bulbs.

"Well, I'm sorry about this whole confusion, Stan. Looks like there's a bug in the system. After some paperwork though, you’re free to go."

Stan filled out the necessary release forms with an ease that only comes from experience. He told Ford to go wait in the car, muttering to him that he was going to threaten to sue the county. Once Ford left with a promise to get the car cooled down, Stan turned to Bulbs and Durland, both of whom looked worried over the threat of a lawsuit.

"Calm down boys, I'm not gonna sue you," Stan explained and the two officers relaxed significantly, "I just… I wanted to thank you both for talking to me. For sharing your stories with me. I… I still don't know what I'm going to say, but he does deserve to know… and Durland? Thanks. I don't know how he'll feel about it, but I appreciate it."

With that, Stan went outside and climbed into the driver seat of the Stan Mobile. Ford was waiting for him in the passenger seat, looking at his hands in his lap.

"I'm ready to go home, how 'bout you, Ford?"

Silence followed the question, and Stan turned the engine over and began the drive back home. After the silence grew unbearable, Stan turned the stereo on, and let the music fill the cab. It was Even More BABBA Platinum: Even More BABBA HIts, and as Your First Winter began to play, but Ford didn’t hum along with the song.

They got home to the Mystery Shack without incident or talking, and Ford was out of the car, basket in hand, immediately after it had stopped. Stan had to jump out of the vehicle while leaving it running to make sure he caught Ford’s attention before his twin got inside.

“Sixer? Where are you going?”

Ford froze with his hand on the doorknob, Stan watched his shoulders move up and down as his brother took deep breaths.

“I’m going inside, Stan. I...I would like to take some time to work on my research.”

“Oh… um? Have a good time?”

Ford disappeared inside the house, and Stan exhaled deeply. He went and turned off the Stan Mobile, locking the vehicle before going inside.

His brother was already down in his lab by the time Stan had gotten the front door locked behind him, and Stan went over to the vending machine and raised his hand to input the code before thinking better of it. Now wasn’t the time to bother Ford. He was obviously upset about something and pushing this new information on him may only make his mood worse. The last thing Stan wanted was his brother in a foul mood when he came out to him.

Stan went to his room and changed once again into his loungewear before heading back to the living room. He took a seat in his armchair and turned on the television. He was flipping through the channels, when he came across a rerun of Buck Rogers in the 25th Century. He remembered watching the show when he was younger, he remembered when he and Ford would sit by Pops’ old radio and listen to reruns of the radio show, and he remembered… well now, that story might be a good ice breaker.

Stan turned off the television, and stood. He went to the vending machine, punched in the code, and went down the stairs, making sure to apply pressure to the seventh step to announce his presence to his brother. Stan found Ford in the same place he found him at the beginning of this; at his desk, bent over his journals.

“What do you want, Stan?” Ford asked.

Stan walked over to the other chair that was brought down to the lab once the Pine brother’s had returned from their trip around the world, he leaned back in the chair and folded his arms.

“Do you remember Buck Rogers?” Stan questioned, and Ford scoffed.

“Of course I do! Is that all you needed? I’m very busy, Stanley.”

“And you remember how we used to listen to the reruns of the radio show as kids?”

“Yes, Stanley, but why does this matter?” Ford said, rather bored with this game of 20 questions.

“I was upstairs channel surfing and an episode of the show was playing. You know, that show from the 70’s? And it reminded me of a time we were playing.”

“We used to play a lot, Stanley. What’s your point?”

“We used to play Buck Rogers a lot, do you remember why we stopped?”

“...No,” Ford lied, rather badly as well, but it seemed he was unwilling to play along with Stan. No matter. Stan was determined to continue.

“Pops caught us playing. You were Buck that time, and I was Wilma? I remember we were acting out a romance scene between the two of them, we were being stupid kids and we were brothers. I kissed you on the cheek and Pops walked in right then and there. Any of this ringing a bell?”

Ford had stiffened in his seat as Stan continued to relate the tale, he knew where this was going, and Stan could tell he was fighting himself on whether or not he should nod or shake his head. Eventually, he nodded, and licked his lips.

“He beat us with his belt,” Ford continued the story, his body shaking slightly, “he called us… names.”

“He called us ‘fags’, Sixer.” Stan supplied, cool as a cucumber despite the fact that he was relaying a source of trauma. Ford stood from his seat, anger was plastered on his face and he pointed a finger at Stan.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” Ford stated, shocking Stan into silence, “You’re trying to make me admit it, aren’t you? What, so you can ridicule me? That’s what earlier was about too, isn’t it?”

“‘Admit it’?” Stan repeated, “Admit what, Poindexter?”

“That I’m a ‘dirty faggot’, just like Pops said I was!” Ford exclaimed, and flinched as if he had been struck when he realized what he had said. Stan stood, and straightened his back, Ford meanwhile, hunched his own back, making himself look smaller and unthreatening in comparison to Stan. Ford raised his hands to protect his face, and Stan realized that his brother thought he was going to hit him. Stan felt sick to his stomach.

“I-I didn’t mean that,” Ford said in a panic, “Stanley, Stan, I’m not like that, I-I just meant that-”

“Ford,” Stan said softly and placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder, “I’m pansexual.”

“W-what?”

“I’m pansexual, Ford. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell ya. I was nervous because I wasn’t sure how you’d take it. I had no idea that you liked men.”

“Oh my God,” Ford said and brought his hands down slowly, “Oh my God, Stan! I...I was so distraught, I thought you knew, I was so sure in the car you were confronting me about being… about being a queer, I...Jesus, Stan, are you serious?”

“As the plague, Sixer. And even if I wasn’t? I wouldn’t care that you’re gay. I’m not like Pops, may that bastard rot in Hell.”

Ford laughed bitterly, and Stan could see tears starting to well in his eyes, though from relief, or sadness, he wasn’t sure.

“He wasn’t all bad, Stan,” Ford argued weakly, and Stan shrugged.

“He wasn’t all good either,” Stan countered.

Ford nodded, and Stan could see that his tears were starting to flow slowly down his cheeks moments before he was crushed in a hug. Without hesitation, Stan brought his arms up to encircle his twin’s shoulders, and they stayed like that for almost a minute. When Ford finally pulled away, he was wiping his eyes.

“How… how did you know you were pan?” He asked, and Stan shrugged again.

“You know how it is, you go to a dive bar and look around for someone to take home. One day a guy propositioned me and I figured ‘What the Hell?’. What about you? When’d you learn you bat for the other team?” Stan questioned, and Ford looked somewhat bashful.

“It was when I was doing my research. I was discovering so many things about the world around me, and suddenly I just… discovered something about who I was as well.” Ford explained, and immediately Stan turned worried.

“Ford… you didn’t? Not with Bill?”

“No! No! Bill wasn’t even… Bill tricked me, but no, I was never interested in him like that.”

“Good, good… Was it Mark then?”

“Stan! Are you just going to continue to ask who I realized that I was gay for?”

Stan nodded with a smile, and Ford sighed.

“It was Fiddleford.”

“McGucket?” Stan said, laughing, “You fell for McGucket of all people? Ford! There was a beautiful, immortal lizard man in your life, and you went for the scrawny engineer?”

Ford blushed and shrugged, and Stan let the subject drop with little more than another chuckle, and a pat on the shoulder. Stan then turned to leave the room.

“Wait, where are you going?” Ford asked, reaching his hand out to stop Stan from walking away.

“Upstairs to watch Buck Rogers, it’s pretty campy, but not bad. You’re coming with.” Stan said, and it was clear to Ford that it was less of an invitation and more of a friendly order.

“So...we’re done talking about this?”

“Not if you don’t want to be, but we can talk over the show.”

Ford looked perplexed, but followed Stan upstairs to the living room. He took a seat on the floor in front of the armchair with a soft grunt of discomfort.

Stan took his seat in his chair, and switched the television back on. The episode of Buck Rogers was more than halfway over, but the brothers enjoyed the bad acting, cheesy effects, and less than stellar writing. They watched the show in near silence, only commenting on the show and laughing at the antics of Buck, Wilma, and Hawk, even when the plot didn't entirely warrant a humorous response.

"Hey, Poindexter?" Stan said, interrupting the end credits.

"Yeah, Stan?" Ford replied, looking over to his twin. Stan was staring at the screen.

"You know I love you, right?"

Ford smiled warmly, and set a six fingered hand on his brother's knee.

"Yeah, I do, and I love you too."

Stan smiled and nodded. Now all he had to do was figure out a way to tell Mabel and Dipper, but that could wait for another few weeks.


End file.
